University of Virginia Library

Auld Reeky mourn in sable hue,
Let fouth of tears dreep like May-dew,
To bra' tippony bid adieu,
Which we with greed,
Bended as fast as she could brew,
But ah! she's dead.
To tell the truth now, Maggy dang,
Of Customers she had a bang;
For lairds and sutors a' did gang,
To drink bedeen;
The barn and yard was aft sae thrang,
We took the green.
And there by dizens we lay down,
Syne sweetly ca'd the healths a-roun,
To bonny lasses black or brown,
As we loo'd best;
In bumpers we dull cares did drown,
And took our rest.
When in our pouch we sand some clinks,
And took a turn o'er Bruntsfield links,
Aften in Maggy's, at Hy jinks.
We guzzl'd scuds,
Till we cou'd scarce, wi' hale out drinks,
Cast aff our duds.
We drank and drew and fill'd again,
O wow! but we were blyth and sain;
Whan ony had their count mistane,
O! it was nice,
To hear us a' cry, pick your bane,
And spell your dice.
Fou closs we us'd to drink and rant,
Until we baith did glowr and gant,
And pish, and spew, and yesk, and maunt,
Right swash I trow,
Then off auld stories we did chant,
Whan we were fu'.
Whan we were wearied at the gouff,
Then Maggy Johnston's was our houff,
Now a' our gamesters may sit douff,
Wi' hearts like lead,
Death wi' his rung reach'd her a youff,
And sae she's dead.
Maun we be forc'd thy skill to tine,
For which we will right sair repine?
Or hast thou left to bairns of thine
The pauky nack,
Of brewing ale amaist like wine,
That gar'd us crack?
Sae brawly did the pease-scon tost,
Biz i'the quaff, and flee the frost,
There wi' gat fu' wi' little cost,
And muckle speed;
Now wae worth death, our sports a' lost,
Since Maggy's dead.
Ae summer night I was sae fu',
Amang the riggs I gaed to spew,
Syne down on a green bank I trow,
I took a nap,
And sought a night Balillilu,
As sound's a tap.
And when the dawn begoud to glow,
I hirsled up my dizzy pow,
Frae 'mang the corn like worry-kow,
Wi' banes fu' sair,
And kend nae mair than if a ew,
How I came there.
Some said it was the pith of broom,
That she stow'd in her masking loom,
Which in our heads rais'd sic a foom,
Or some wild seed,
Which aft the chappin stoup did toom,
But fill'd our head.
But now since 'tis sae that we must
Not in the best ale put our trust,
But when we're auld, return to dust,
Without remead;
Why should we take it in disgust,
That Maggy's dead.
Of warldly comforts she was rife,
And liv'd a lang and hearty life,
Right free of care, or toil, or strife,
Till she was stale;
And kend to be a kanny wife
At brewing ale.
Then farewel Maggy douse and fell,
Of brewers a' thou bore the bell;
Let a' thy gossies yelp and yell,
And, without feed,
Guess whether ye're in heaven or hell,
They're sure ye're dead.

EPITAPH.

O rare Maggy Johnston.